Page 52 of King of Praise
The term hangs between us, neither rejected nor fully embraced. A framework we’re exploring together, built on trust and mutual desire rather than rigid protocols. She shivers and I’ll bet it has nothing to do with cold.
“Is that what I am to you?” she asks quietly. “Your submissive?”
I meet her questioning gaze. “Only if you want to be. You have all the control.”
She nods but doesn’t say anything else. I’m not sure if that means she’s willing to be my sub or if she’s still thinking about what she wants in this relationship. Either way, I’ll take her however she chooses to come to me.
I help her into soft sleep clothes despite her continued insistence she can dress herself. The nurturing feels as natural as breathing—an extension of the protective instinct that’s defined our relationship from the beginning. But that protection has transformed into something deeper, more complex. I’m no longer simply shielding her from external threats. I’m creating a space where she can feel safe enough to be vulnerable, to explore desires long suppressed under Lucas’s control.
Once we’re both dressed, we crawl into bed and I arrange her against my chest, her head tucked beneath my chin. Her smaller body fits perfectly against my larger frame, as though designed to occupy this space.
As her breathing deepens into sleep, I remain awake, cataloging the events that brought us to this moment. From the horror of finding her blood-spattered in my apartment to the tenderness of holding her in my arms, our journey defies convention.
The taboo nature of our connection should create insurmountable barriers. Yet here we lie, tangled together in the aftermath of passion, finding in each other something neither expected to discover again—trust.
The realization brings both peace and disquiet. I’ve spent decades avoiding attachment, building walls between myself and potential vulnerability. Now, with Naomi sleeping trustingly in my arms, those walls lie in ruins.
I acknowledge that some forces cannot be resisted, and perhaps shouldn’t be. Whatever consequences await this choice, I’ll face them. For her. For us. For this unexpected chance at something I’d thought forever beyond my reach.
In the darkness of the cabin, with Naomi’s steady breathing matching my own, I surrender to the possibility that sometimes the most dangerous choices are also the most necessary. That sometimes salvation comes wrapped in complications. That sometimes love isn’t a weakness to avoid but a strength to embrace.
So I send out a prayer to whatever deity might be listening:Let me be worthy of her trust. Let me be strong enough to protect this precious thing growing between us. Let me be enough.
I tighten my hold on Naomi, drawing her closer. Her small sound of contentment as she burrows deeper into my embrace sends a final wave of possessive satisfaction through me.
The boundaries between protector and protected, dominant and submissive, blur into something simpler but infinitely morecomplex—two broken people finding wholeness in each other’s arms.
Whatever tomorrow brings, this moment—this perfect alignment of souls—cannot be taken from us.
And in that knowledge, I find peace enough to finally let go, surrendering to dreams filled not with the violence and darkness that usually haunts my sleep, but with the promise of redemption through love. Through her. Through us.
The last thought that crosses my mind before consciousness fully fades is a simple truth—some risks are worth taking, some battles worth fighting, some loves worth any price. Naomi is all three.
And with that certainty anchoring me, I sleep.
I wake slowly,consciousness returning like a gentle tide. For the first time in decades, I feel truly rested, my body relaxed in a way that speaks of deep, untroubled sleep.
My hand reaches automatically for Naomi, seeking her warmth, but finds only empty space. A spike of alarm shoots through me before my senses register sounds coming from the kitchen—the soft clatter of bakeware and the aromatic promise of something sweet in the oven. Propping myself on my elbows, I scan the cabin.
The sight in the kitchen steals my breath.
Naomi stands at the counter, removing a tray from the oven. She wears my flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled up to expose her slender forearms as she works. The hem reaches mid-thigh, revealing long legs moving with unconscious grace as she transfers what looks like apple turnovers to a cooling rack.Steam rises from the pastries, filling the cabin with the scent of cinnamon and caramelized sugar.
Christ, she’s beautiful.
I allow myself the luxury of simply watching her work, absorbing the scene with quiet wonder. In our brief time in this cabin, she transformed this spartan space into something approaching a home. Dried flowers brighten the table in a mason jar. Books are stacked neatly on the windowsill. The kitchen reflects her preference for order and beauty—ingredients arranged precisely, tools stored with purpose.
These small touches reveal aspects of her personality I didn’t see at my apartment. Her creativity shines through in the way she’s arranged the space. Her attention to detail manifests in the careful organization. Most of all, her desire to nurture emerges in how she uses food and environment to create comfort.
Lucas never deserved her.
The thought rises unbidden, accompanied by a familiar surge of guilt. What kind of father thinks such things about his dead son? But watching Naomi move through the kitchen with such natural grace, seeing how she blooms in the absence of Lucas’s cruelty, I can’t deny the truth of it. My son was a monster who tried to crush this woman’s spirit. I may have failed him as a father, but I won’t fail her.
Naomi catches me watching her. A blush spreads across her cheeks—this same woman who surrendered herself to passion in my arms now shy in the morning light. The contradiction delights me and adds another layer to her complexity.
With a crooked finger, I beckon her to the bed, pleasure coursing through me when she complies without hesitation.
Her bare feet make no sound on the wooden floor as she approaches. I sit up fully, letting the sheet pool around my waist. The morning chill raises goosebumps on my exposed torso, but I ignore it, too focused on the way she moves.
